


As It Was Written

by LifeIsTicketyBoo



Category: Far from the Madding Crowd (2015)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chance Meetings, Enjoying literature together, Female Protagonist, Interviews, Male-Female Friendship, Mental Illness, Multi, POV First Person, Possible Romance, References to Depression, References to PTSD, Secret writer identity, Slow Build, Tragic Boldwood is tragic, Victorian England, prison life sucks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:22:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25133836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LifeIsTicketyBoo/pseuds/LifeIsTicketyBoo
Summary: When Emmeline Rosewell came to visit her incarcerated brother, she did not expect to meet such a fascinating subject of a man, one that hides so much more than it seems...
Relationships: William Boldwood/Original Character
Comments: 11
Kudos: 10





	1. Prologue

I remember Mother telling me about the beauty of stories from a young age. She boasted the unpredictability of it, how easily one can unravel the fabrics of fate with the stroke of a pen, and how simple it could be to turn the tide to one's favor with but a few letters. From one path to another, a compelling story penned by a single author could upset civilizations and topple thrones as if wielded by the very hand of the Lord Himself. Usually, it was then when Father would come in and berate her for saying such nonsense, but I was swayed by it nonetheless. It brought me to the path of becoming an author, after all.  
My name is Emmeline Rosewell, but you would know me better as Robert Thomas. I've written my share of short stories and poems, charming men and women alike. A few of my works were published to The Examiner, and recently Penny Illustrated offered me a sum to share some of my writings with them. All in all, it is a fruitful business that I enjoy very much, and I find it hard to think of a better occupation than what I have. The only downside is that none of them know that the writer's true gender, but I should not have expected less. I should be thankful that I've even come by this job to begin with, considering the difficulty of facing a man-dominated world the way I am now.  
My thoughts were brought to a halt as the sound of creaking wheels broke the silence and reminded me of my purpose. The hansom was depositing me on the front step of a place I never thought I would visit, or at least not so soon. As the cab slowed down, I peered out the window and saw the old building built with aging bricks looming above like a threatening guardian of the shunned and rejected. A prison, isolated from human society and oozing with a dreadful feeling that told you to go back and never return, but I could not. Someone I cared about was in there, and I had to see him and give myself the satisfaction of knowing I did what was necessary. I thanked the coachman, quickly stepped out of the hansom, and looked up at the edifice as the cab drove away. I feared what would happen once I got in, once I found the one I was looking for, but I swallowed my trepidation and stepped towards the gate that would lead me inside.  
The guard waiting for me was brusk, barely batting an eye as he inspected me and grunted for me to enter. I said nothing as they made me go through the usual procedure and another guard guided me around the grey, damp corridors that contrasted the warm fawn of my day dress. I had no idea why this situation left me uneasy, but I did not dare to show it on my face, least of all to this man who kept his eye on me as watchful as a vulture. I pretended to give no mind to his observation, reminding myself that I would arrive at my destination soon and have a more tolerable face to look upon. Just a bit more, just a little bit more...  
I saw him standing in the distance down the corridor with the lanky warden by his side, looking just as attentive as his companion beside me. The prisoner's uniform hung on his body and made him look even frailer than before, like a child ready to be reprimanded before his parent, but I was no parent, and despite the circumstances, I wasn't there to scold him.

"Brother."

He slowly looked up at me, his large hazel eyes glistening with tears of shame and regret. Any sort of uninhibited energy he had in the past seemed to be extinguished by the might of his so-called 'new home'. Good Lord, how much had he changed in the past three months?  
The man beside him looked up at me as well, his eyes lacking the subtle warmth of my brother's. "You've got fifteen minutes." he reminded me with a frown, "Use 'em wisely."  
I tried to repress any sign of my anger toward what they did to my own kin and gave him a silent nod, and the hourglass embedded on the wall has been turned. Grains of sand trickled away with each second, warning me to do as the jailer said. Letting out a sigh, I gave my younger brother a small smile, encouraging him to open up for me, even if not by much. "How are you?" I asked, trying to strike a conversation as gently as I could.  
My brother said nothing at first, still hesitating on whether he should speak up with his superior breathing over his neck, but gradually, and thankfully, his expression mellowed a bit. "Good." He spouted, his voice growing raspy with puberty's touch.  
At least there was some reaction, even if I could see it was dishonest from a mile away. I doubted it was out of choice, but I dared not hint that I was aware of it. "Mother and Father worry about you," I mentioned, "Asked me to come here to see how you fare. You know how they are."  
"Mmm... yes." He murmured after another period of silence while shifting uncomfortably, "But enough about them, I... How are you?"  
"As well as can be expected, I suppose." I replied with a soft chuckle, "The man is as demanding as always, I'm afraid."  
He nodded in understanding. "I remember... You told me he... kept dispatching you on some brilliant idea." he murmured rather knowingly, to which I returned a nod of affirmation. When it came to my alias, the number of people who knew the face behind the name were few. Only my brother was trustworthy enough to have these conversations with me, and this was the best way to do it in spite of the positions we were in. It was difficult for me to find someone to rely on when most members of my family were as nosy and unctuous as they were. "Oh, he will get one eventually, I assure you, even if it takes an eternity." I tried to jest.  
It prompted a quiet chuckle out of him, which brought relief to my heart. Growing silent again, he seemed to think of what more he could say as he looked at me thoughtfully with his youthful eyes. It seems that my visit brought a spark of life to them, uplifting his spirit from the dire condition of the prison he was consigned to. "I'm... not alone, you know," he suddenly said. "I’ve met people. Some help me to, uh... recover. Get better."  
I raised my eyebrows at his phrasing. "How so?" I asked, a hint of intrigue creeping into my voice.  
He appeared to hesitate for a moment, probably piecing together a response that would not aggravate the guard beside him. "They speak to me about whatever we like, eat together when we're allowed to, but they're only a few." He explained with a slight shrug, "But we keep close."  
I listened intently, noticing the change in him as he spoke of his new friends, how he became more at ease and even showed a glimpse of a smile. Nights of dreading what might have become of him in this terrible place had been put to rest. "Would you like to tell me more about them?" I persisted, wanting to learn more about these mystery people he seemed so fond of.  
He grew quiet again, but this time it was less out of fear and more from being pulled back into some distant memory he had of the group. "Well... most of them are not far from my age. They try to improve themselves, as I do," He paused and gave the guard beside him a wary glance, "But... one of them is older. Much older, actually. So old he could have fathered the rest of us, but... he still acts like one of us, in a way."  
I did not expect this turn of events. Creasing my eyebrows in confusion, I pondered this strange visual of young men gathering about with this grown man twice their age, spreading his wisdom to youths who never knew better. "It sounds as if he has had quite the influence on you," I presumed with a small smile.  
My brother tittered. "Quite. He used to be wealthy, you know. Had a farm with animals and acres of land." He continued, "He knows a lot about and all sorts tells us how to behave since we've not been here for long. I wouldn't have learned so much about this place without his aid."  
I knew it was ridiculous to be so interested in some elder gentleman my sibling encountered, but my curiosity was still piqued. The way he was described as a pillar of wisdom, a beacon of hope in this desolate building filled with despair and grief, was so earnest that I became fascinated by it. He sounded like a sage stripped out of a fairytale, spreading his knowledge far and wide to those in need.

In fact, he might actually be a perfect candidate for my work.

I glanced at the guards, a plot beginning to brew in my mind and reawaken ideas long forgotten. Could it be that Robert Thomas had found inspiration once again? I never thought the time would come so soon. Was my scheme worth the risk? Perhaps, but I could not let it go to waste. I had to grasp it before it slipped between my fingers to never be seen again. I forced myself to calm down with a deep breath before turning back to my brother. "Do you know where I could find him?" I asked, keeping my voice calm despite the eagerness growing withing me.  
He seemed confused by my question at first, then thoughtful, and finally showed understanding at the meaning behind my words. He had no need to say anything when his eyes spoke in his place. "I can't remember for certain, but I've heard his name was Boldwood." He gave an answer, "B-But I'm not sure if they would-"  
"Allow me." I quickly cut him off as I turned to the guard, unrelenting with getting my hands on the chance, "Good sir, I'm sure you’ve heard of Robert Thomas, yes?"  
The warden blinked in a mixture of surprise and annoyance. "What of it?" he spat, clearly wanting this to be over with quickly.  
To think I referred to him as 'good', I almost shudder at the idea now. "I have friends who know him personally, and I cannot help my fascination with this Boldwood fellow my brother mentioned." I kept my calm facade and explained the situation, "Surely I'd be allowed to leave a note and send it over, along with any required payment? I'd hate to rob Mr. Thomas of subject matter... wouldn’t you?"  
The guard narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but I made sure my countenance was as collected as usual. The tension became so palpable and the silence so thick that the only sound we could hear was the rustling of grit counting away the minutes until I had to leave my dear sibling behind. The waiting was agonizing, hope seemed to dwindle away and I worried that I was getting ahead of myself, but then I saw it. The twitch of his facial muscles, that brief moment of contemplation, the window of opportunity remaining open for me. He turned his eyes towards me, and both I and my brother gazed at him in anticipation. He then gave a nod, and I knew my victory was assured.

"Very well, A note and nothing more."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For references: Day dress, late 1860s https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EcReGQtXQAE-Rxr?format=jpg&name=900x900  
> Protagonist's appearance based on Romola Garai: https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0304801/mediaviewer/rm3813903360


	2. First Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A letter sent away, a muse comes to life. Has Emmeline truly found what she sought?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for [ Emelye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emelye/pseuds/Emelye) for being my beta-reader!

How long had it been since my mind was so perturbed by the mention of a name? No matter how much I pondered it, I was left with no answer. It sounded ridiculous, preposterous even, and yet it happened, and I had little to no clue of how to take it.  
After returning from my prison visit, I stayed in my room for the remainder of the afternoon, pacing about with great distress and wondering what would come of the decision I made. It had been three days of no word from the man I intended to meet, the one my sibling called 'Boldwood'. I'm a fairly patient woman most days, but this was different, and how could it not be?  
No one understood the struggle of searching for inspiration, something so meaningful and precious at the same time that a writer must hold onto whatever scrap they find. Nevertheless, idling there and ranting to myself would do no good. Taking one last peek out the window in hopes of seeing a mail coach arriving, I went to make myself some tea, all while sighing deeply since no one was outside.  
Standing by the kettle as the water boiled, I ached over how even the simple act of preparing a beverage seemed so insufferably long, and I decided to calm myself in the way I knew best. Various ideas began to course through my mind as I weaved together a list of narratives, providing a distraction from my plight. I could almost see them before me: The story of a scholar who journeys around the world, his past shrouded in mystery, using riddles to spread knowledge to the candid and credulous. An ancient spirit in human suit, aiding mortals with acts of kindness before vanishing in the blink of an eye. Tales of the decrepit nature of mankind, the seeds of hope peeking from beneath the cold earth and blooming with the warmth of a dozen suns...  
To my relief, by the time I poured the tea in a cup and sat down at the table I was significantly calmer and my thoughts more rational. I remember testing this method for the first time a year or so before, and hadn’t stopped since then. I failed to hold back a chuckle at the hilarity that writing managed to bring me unease as well as relieve it, and wondered how it managed to consume my life so. Obviously, there was no bigger joy than to commit my stories to paper as Robert Thomas, but one must wonder if I went too deep into this bottomless pit of literary marvels and dreams. If it was the reason why I had no husband, no home of my own where I could continue my work properly. Why my parents daily encouraged me to independence, daring me to spread my wings and find just that.  
I took another sip of my tea just as the front door whisked open, and heard my mother faintly humming a song as she marched into the kitchen with a pleasant smile stretched across her face. The glimpse of envelopes in her hands prompted me to raise a curious eyebrow. "You seem in good spirits." I teased.  
"Yes, I ran into Mrs. Gale on the way to the market with her babe." My mother replied blithely, "Pity, how tired she looked, but you could see she was very happy."  
I obliged her with a smile, knowing the purpose that lay behind her words. "I believe you, Mother." I reassured her as she went to inspect the kettle, then poured some tea for herself before joining me. My eyes slowly turned to the missives now laid over the table before me. "I didn’t hear the coach." I said, hoping she would give me the answer I looked for.  
"Ah, well, I went by the post road and the coach was nearby, so I decided to fetch it for us there." my mother explained.  
Oh, well. It wasn't as if she could have told me that beforehand. I let out a sigh and reluctantly put down my cup of tea, gazing at the bundle of letters before pulling them closer with growing curiosity. I fought against my impulses and remained patient as I examined the letters one by one as my mother watched me do so. A bill here, a word for my father there, and then another bill...  
But then I saw something strikingly different. It was an envelope, but the quality differed from the others, dark in color and craggy to the touch. I went to find my letter opener and gingerly opened the letter's casing, my hands beginning to shake in expectation as I read through it:

_"To Miss Rosewell,  
I must admit my surprise when your note came to me saying that you wished to meet face to face despite my circumstances. I'm afraid I haven't much to tell you that you would find interesting. Even so, I was touched by your passionate words and I would not dare to refuse. If you still wish, you may come tomorrow and meet me at noontime._

_Yours truly, William Boldwood."_

My mother flinched as I squealed and pranced around in triumph. It came to be! After all the agony of waiting, it finally happened! My joy could not be contained and I rushed to my mother and threw my arms around her in an embrace. The poor woman blinked at me cluelessly but accepted my affection in stride. "Who's in good spirits now?" She quipped, and I could only laugh in return.  
I could barely sleep that night. I found myself pacing around my room again and reading the letter over and over, counting away the hours until the sun rose to remind me of my task. Crippling fears whispered to me that my optimism was in vain, that perhaps he only agreed out of boredom or to make a fool of me, and I did all in my power to rein them back. Thankfully, before I knew it, I was yet again in a hansom driving me to the prison, but my enthusiasm helped to numb the discomfort I felt the last time I visited the place and the wariness that had lurked in my heart since the day before. Once I stepped onto the building's premises and announced my reason for visiting, however, I forced myself to regain a more peaceful countenance so they wouldn't grow suspicious. I came to help 'my friend' Mr. Thomas with his work and nothing more, and I intended to appear as such until the very end.  
My heart pounded with such ferocity that I feared it would burst out of my ribcage. It was as if my body refused to accept what awaited me at the end of the corridor, or who would, to be exact. I knew he was as interested in meeting me as I was in him and I could not bear my excitement for this long-awaited moment, mere steps away from where I stood.

And then, finally, I saw him waiting for me.

"Ah, Ms. Rosewell, I presume. A pleasure."

It was hard to believe at first. Not the fact that he was there but more the fact that I did not know what to make of him. A man in his forties, he definitely seemed like someone born to aristocracy but not entirely. It was as if I inspected a precious gem slowly deprived of its luster: Pallid skin that used to have a healthy tan, warm green eyes tainted with sadness and fatigue, waves of dusky, crudely-cut hair that he possibly combed himself, yet a few unruly tresses perked out to hang over his round face, covered by a bushy beard that knew a razor's touch once. An amalgamation of order and disorder, prospered yet waned, and all scented by the staleness of the clothes he was dressed with.  
"Mister Boldwood." I returned the greeting with a polite nod. "How fares your day?"  
"I'd say it is going better than expected." The man replied, a slight smile momentarily stretching across his lips in an attempt to calm me down. It was warm and comforting, like a parent's embrace after awakening from a dreadful dream, and I gradually felt its effect on me.  
I cleared my throat formally to mask the tension within me and moved on with my charade. "I hope you’ll forgive my haste," I said apologetically. "Mr. Thomas wants his stories as quickly as possible, and I'm afraid it would be no good to delay his request."  
"Oh no, certainly not," Boldwood quickly shook his head in affirmation. "I won’t keep you when we have so little time."  
I felt some shame at the fact I had to pressure him to move on with the conversation, and yet there was not even a hint of unease in his mannerisms. Was he truly interested in my work? I might have doubted so at first, but perhaps I misjudged too quickly for my own good. Before I could contemplate it further, however, Boldwood's soothing voice caressed my ears once again. "Forgive me if I overstep but... I recall you writing that someone referred you to me. I presume it's someone you know?" he asked.  
Once again I lost my focus and once again his voice brought me back, softer than silk and hushed as a tide in a summer evening. Safe to say, it helped to present myself as the nervous errand girl I pretended to be. "W-Well, erm, it was my brother, actually." I stammered a bit, "Abner Rosewell. Surely you've heard of him."  
Boldwood's weary eyes flickered in reminiscence. "Abner? Yes, I know of him." He answered with a gentle beam, "A very nice young man, often finds me at mealtime and tells me about his days as a shopkeeper. It's a shame he took the path he did."  
I tittered the image of my sibling effusing over work that had nothing interesting to offer in the way of conversation. It was him exactly; a young man watching the world go by with a spark of wonderment in his eyes. Alas, the guilt still pricked my heart at the reminder that these were memories of a dying past, days where the worst he had done was to return home with bruised knees after tumbling in our yard and hands coated in dirt from scouting for insects. Memories of a good-mannered boy with a kind heart and a curious mind, anything but the criminal he became. Still, I knew it would be rude to stay quiet before my interviewee and disregarded these recollections for the moment. "Indeed it is," I quietly replied, "But you cared for him nonetheless. He would have been lost completely had it not been for your guidance."  
He said nothing after that, only giving me another one of his solemn smiles. Was he trying to be humble despite my praise? Possibly so, considering that we were being watched by the guards, or maybe he really was that modest? The mystery of him elated me even more. "Well, in any case, we are here for you today and it would be rude of me to not pay mind to the fact," I cleared my throat again and said with a smile of my own, "So, Mister Boldwood... are you ready to begin?"  
I paid close attention as the man quietly began to ponder to himself. His eyes moved down to gaze at the dilapidated tiles beneath his feet with a creased brow, looking as if he was weighing his options one last time. My worries returned to stir within me and I could not help but wonder where his hesitation to open up came from. He took so long to answer, and that hint of doubt tainted the kind features of his face. What could he be so afraid of? Was I naive to think he would simply waltz in to tell his story? Perhaps so. His facial muscles continued to twitch in accordance with his thought process, but soon the intense expression relaxed and he looked up at me. His mind seemed to have been settled.

The Lord as my witness, I had never been happier to see someone nod at me.


	3. Second Opportunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dream becoming a reality, the aspired writer moves on with her goal, her journey has only begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big shout-out to the amazing [ Emelye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emelye/pseuds/Emelye) for beta reading! <3

It was a warm afternoon, perfect for a good rest and an opportunity to study my notes. I made good use of the mahogany bench outside and settled there by myself to review my introduction to Mister Boldwood. My eyes scanned the answers given to me that day as I meticulously searched for something worth writing about, the melodious chirping of fleeting sparrows soothing me and helping to continue my work with ease.  
A pity we didn't have much time to discuss more of his past, though I could see what he meant when he said his past wasn't that interesting to begin with. He was a man of wealth since childhood, born to a family who had been in the agriculture business for several generations, himself - the fifth with his younger sister. He was molded into a proper heir from a young age, learning types of grains and livestock as he learned to read and write. I felt he gave himself too little credit. At his age I still struggled to learn arithmetic, let alone the difference between wheat and oat bran.  
l laughed at how poor a student I had been before continuing to read my notes for anything else of use. There was nothing much in his juvenile years aside from an incident where he lost a cow during a checkup, and made his first trade alongside his father. I took a moment to lean back in my seat and sigh to myself. How on earth could a child spend his time doing nothing but farming when there were so many possibilities out there? It might sound hypocritical of me, but at least I had the choice to become who I am. I had the freedom to take a pen and write down whatever seemed fit to me, to choose the futures of my characters and the routes they would take to get there. Mister Boldwood, however, did not seem to have this luxury. Isolated from simple pleasures and raised to be a landowner of the highest caliber for acres of land he was meant to retain since birth, confined by a purpose given to him due to his bloodline rather than merit...  
The thought of such a cage made me shift with discomfort, so I excused myself back into my house to do some actual writing. My parents were thankfully back in their shop which meant that our home was mine alone for the time being, allowing me to channel Robert Thomas without concern. I could not think of a bigger pleasure than to sit by the desk and open the leather-clad journal laid before me where my new story would be given life. I decided to name it 'The Ballad of Lord Theobald', unless my mind conjured a better alternative later on, which it probably would, and began to sketch the plinth of my tale on paper. It was slow at first, but it did not take long for me to reach my stride and fill the pages with content that satisfied me. A lonely stroll through a vibrant countryside with a figure in a worn-out frock coat gazing off into the horizon in search of something unknown. A bronzed hand smoothed the brim of a hat sapped of color by the ruthless sun. He journeyed to a small town and took in the sights and smells in quiet awe...  
Quite a start, and yet... it still lacked something I failed to put my finger on. Was it the writing? Did I overlook anything important? I looked through my notes and they all seemed fine. In a daze, I leaned back in my chair and took a deep breath, pondering my situation. 'The problem isn't the words lacking reason,' I thought, 'but the reason they were written down'. Whatever _he_ told me, it wasn't nearly enough. A deep hunger latched onto me and filled me with unease. I craved more. I had to find more material. I needed inspiration.

I needed to see Mister Boldwood again.

I knew it was terrible of me to visit him for such a selfish reason, but something had to be done about it and I was never one to shy away from seizing a good opportunity. I was concerned over the possibility of Mister Boldwood becoming suspicious of how seldom I came to visit him, but I reassured myself that as long as I remained calm and focused on the reason for my coming, it would all be alright. With that in mind, I began some preparations: A few notes here, some planned questions there, calculated possibilities to where it would lead and how his words would bring life into the rest of my story. I smiled to myself, filling with determination to make the most of what I had. This would be worth it.  
I wrote a letter later that day and hurried to find the closest post road to deliver it, forced back to the agony of waiting at my house while keeping an eye on the windows to see if any mail coaches arrived with a reply. Another day passed, then two, and then three. It was all so very painful, the wait taunting me with the possibility of hoping for naught. It was a relief to find a response to the letter a day later allowing me to visit on Tuesday the following week. If luck was on my side, the fateful day would come before I even realized it.  
It was surprisingly hard to determine why I was so anxious at the thought of meeting him again. Perhaps it was the fear of him learning I was the very person who 'sent me' to have the appointment, but that was nothing new. I dreaded to think of the shame and bafflement that my discovery would bring, how no one would believe that little Emmeline, the daughter of two average shopkeepers from East Keswick, could be Robert Thomas of all people. An atrocity really, a wave of shock that would spread across England like wildfire and consume me along with it. It was a terrifying thought, yet not as terrifying as it was to have _him_ find out, and I kept wondering why. It must be those eyes, worn with age and still sharp enough to know the secrets behind mine. Those were the eyes of someone who had to learn about the duplicity of men from a young age, distinguishing friend from foe for as long as he could remember, which meant I had to proceed with all the caution I possessed with this man, this mysterious convict who unsettled me so.  
The procedure was the same as always. Receive the guard's approval and be led into the corridor in which we’d meet, keep my head up but not too much, and don't ask more questions than I ought to. I suppressed the urge to tug at the skirt of my dress to calm my nerves before I finally saw him waiting at the other side, a sturdy figure of well-worn refinement clinging to his noble roots. "Mister Boldwood. Good afternoon." I greeted him with a smile.  
"Miss Rosewell." He returned a respectful nod, "I, uh, hope your journey here was well."  
"Indeed it was," I assured him before taking out my note and pen, "My apologies for the abruptness of this visit. Mister Thomas looked through the notes a few days ago and determined he needed more than what I've provided."  
"I had a feeling it wouldn't suffice," Boldwood admitted to me with a sheepish smile, "There's only so much one can do with... insipid tales of a boy studying to become a businessman."  
Sadly he wasn't wrong, not after studying it myself. I wouldn't call them 'insipid', but they did lack something only years of experience could offer, which meant that I needed to dig a little deeper into his history. "Hence my visit," I then said, "And I'm afraid we have much to discuss, so we better start before our time runs out."  
He gave a courteous nod, and soon we began the interview. Despite the unusual circumstances I could feel him opening up to me, slowly and carefully, at the prospect of someone listening to his tales. "I'm not sure if there is much to say other than what I've told," he spoke to me after a few moments of silence, "There weren't many of us back at home, really. Most of our relatives traveled the world for new investments while we stayed in one place, looking over what we already had. They always returned with gifts by the time Christmas was around the corner."  
"I can only imagine what kind of gifts they've brought," I said with a small smile, trying my best to hide my growing curiosity, "Are there ones you remember in particular?"  
He became quiet again, searching for old memories he never thought to touch again. "Hmm, well, there was a necklace from Africa, an offering from a tribe my uncle frequented once," he recounted. "And quite a lovely music box from Russia. My sister was keen on me playing it every night before bed, she... said it was the closest we could come to visiting the place."  
I chuckled at the thought as I wrote down his words. I began to realize how he sounded nostalgic about these memories, wistful even. "You do sound regretful, Mister Boldwood. Were you hoping to join them?" I asked.  
The man seemed to ponder my question for a moment, his lips pursing ever so slightly. "Well, that's, uh, more difficult to explain," he began explaining, "I knew my place and my purpose, and it wasn't out there. I was needed at home and I couldn't ask for more, but..." He paused to reconsider what he had to say, "I won't lie when I say I have felt... tinges of envy here and there. We all want freedom, in one way or another."  
It was only after I finished writing it down that I noticed him looking at me. I did my best to stay calm but I could already feel the power of his gaze stirring something inside me. I could almost feel his longing for what he could have had, and for what he had lost, hidden behind the warm colors of his eyes. When I realized I was losing my train of thought, I cleared my throat to pull myself together. "Well, I can't say you are wrong. A-about freedom, I mean," I said tentatively, "My father owns a store for dry goods and I have my share of duties when I am allowed, but I always feel some relief whenever I leave for a stroll. At least a market has a reason to be so clamorous.”  
It was a poor attempt at a joke, and yet Mister Boldwood found it in him to chuckle. "It's hard not to share your sentiment." He assured me, his lips twitching into a smile of amusement, "I certainly did when I was still younger."  
"Everything seems like a possibility, with no obstacles whatsoever." I added in thought, my mind racing with ideas for my story as I etched them onto the paper. A tragic past, an ambitious young man with a hunger for independence who learned his mistake far too late, fleeing in shame from his hometown to redeem himself in the eyes of God...  
I’d been careless again, and the moment I lifted my eyes I noticed he was looking at me again without a word. "I-I'm terribly sorry, Mister Boldwood," I quickly apologized, "I haven't the faintest idea to why this happened, and—"  
The man gave me a subtle nod to put me at ease, silently telling me I had no need to excuse myself. I could hear the guard beside me grumbling to himself about how I had no reason to apologize to a jailbird like him. "No, I... I should be sorry. I only wish I had more to tell you," he replied, his voice touched by humility and his eyes checking on the guards warily, "You came all the way here for me and I... I have nothing to offer you. I can't imagine how disappointed your writing friend might be when you return."  
My heart clenched at the sight of him retreating from his cheerful demeanor. I was so close to reach out to the man he was in his prime who charmed so many in his wake, only to watch him revert to what he’d become in his time here: A frail, damaged shell of his former self, belittled by those in power. I wanted to tell him that no, Robert Thomas wouldn't be disappointed in him, he wasn’t, but I held my tongue. "I'm sure I could persuade him to delay the matter. We can always try again when you're ready." I said to him, giving a reassuring smile of my own.  
He was unresponsive for a moment or two, and I began to fear he had shut down completely, but then he slowly raised his eyes to examine me, a flurry of emotions shifting the subtle lines on his face as they had on my last visit. I held my breath as I awaited his answer, praying in my heart to hear him say yes a second time and give me hope that I would find the inspiration I needed... And then he answered.

"Then, in that case... I'll do my best to try again soon, if Mister Thomas would be willing to wait."

A weight lifted off my chest, and I barely restrained a smile of relief. "Very well. I'll inform him of your response as soon as I return home." I replied. If only he knew how delighted my 'writing friend' would be...


End file.
